You Don't Bring Me Flowers Anymore
by Anna Flair
Summary: "When you would give me those flowers- it used to make me so happy. But if you brought me flowers now…it'd just make me sad. It'd just remind me of a time we can never go back to." One-shot.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own Glee.

**Note:** I only refer to the characters as "he" and "she", but it is, in fact, Jesse and Rachel I'm talking about.

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><p>She said she'd be home by 8.<p>

He said he'd be home by 9.

They reach the door at the same time: 10.

"Rehearsal ran late," is her excuse.

"Traffic," is his.

They both squeeze through the entrance to their home, wincing when their hands touch. The contact is more than they've had in months.

He drops his briefcase on the kitchen table, and she goes to heat up some leftover pasta.

"You didn't eat dinner?" he questions softly.

"No time," she responds, avoiding his eyes.

"I could cook for you," he suggests, his heart picking up speed. He's moving into territory he hasn't entered in a while.

"You're tired," she says. "I won't be a bother."

"No bother," he quickly says, moving towards the stove. "I used to do this all the time when we first got married."

He moves his hand to turn on the oven, but she grabs it, holding it back. "Don't," she whispers. She seems as shocked about their hand contact as he does.

"I don't mind," he insists, but she shakes her head.

"The pasta is fine. Go to bed." She lets go of his hand and sits down at the kitchen table, facing away from him.

"Can we just talk?" he asks, swiftly sitting down across from her and grabbing her arms before she can move.

"I'm too tired," she lies. Her eyes are alert; sleepiness has left her.

"So you're fine with our marriage falling to pieces?" he asks bluntly. Her face flinches, and he knows he hit a nerve.

"Our marriage is not falling to pieces," she says rigidly, her brown eyes piercing his blue.

"We never talk. We barely see each other," he accuses slowly.

"And that's my fault?" she shoots back, slamming down her utensils. "You're the one who is constantly at that talent agency of yours!"

"And you're the one who seems to be at rehearsal all day and night! Damnit, do you even have rehearsal anymore?" he shouts. "I called Sal at the theater last week to see if you were available for lunch. He said you hadn't been there all day." He pauses, taking a deep breath. "What have you been up to?"

"I know what you're suggesting," she glares at him. "But you know I wouldn't do that to you."

"I barely know anything about you anymore," he says quietly, keeping his eyes trained on hers.

"I'm not having an affair," she whispers. "I just need time to myself."

"It seems like that's all you want now- time to yourself. Why can't we just have a normal conversation?"

"Things have changed too much since…" she trails off, tears filling her eyes.

"Don't talk about that," he says stonily.

"Exactly! Do you think it's easy for me to think about it, either? It kills me. You're just too self-absorbed to realize it."

"Then let's talk about it now," he says angrily. "What the hell do you want me to say? Tess meant the world to me. Excuse me if I had a hard time dealing with her death."

"Are you trying to imply that I didn't have a difficult time dealing with our daughter's death? Because you're sadly mistaken," she says, her voice quivering. "You weren't there for me; I had no one to help me. And yet you had the nerve to yell at me when I started taking all those pills."

"You were slowly killing yourself!" he objects. "I didn't want you to die, too."

"Well, it's nice to know you cared," she says sarcastically.

He flings his arms up in the air in outrage. "I've always cared."

"Remember when you used to bring me home flowers every day after work?" she asks suddenly, and he's confused by the subject change.

"Yeah…"

"You don't do that anymore," she says simply.

"If that's the reason why you always refuse to talk to me…" he begins.

"No, I'm just saying. When you would give me those flowers- it used to make me so happy. But if you brought me flowers now…it'd just make me sad. It'd just remind me of a time we can never go back to."

"What are you saying?" he asks slowly.

She shakes her head, tears running down her face. "I don't think we can ever be happy again."

His heart begins to hammer quickly. "We could if we'd only work at it."

"We're trying to work at it now, and look what's happened. Everything is just going to get worse and worse."

"I still love you," he says shakily, tears now falling down both of their faces.

"I feel the same way, but I don't know…things have become so hard."

"So…you want a divorce?" he whispers, not believing the words he's speaking.

"No…" she says quickly. "Not yet, at least. Maybe if we just separate for a little while. "Her hands are shaking, and she's biting her lip.

He doesn't know how to respond because he's forgotten what his life was like without her in it. He doesn't know if he could survive.

"It's for the best," she adds. "I don't want to do it any more than you do."

He nods, running a hand through his curly hair. "I'll sleep on the couch tonight."

She gives him a weak smile and stands to throw away her uneaten pasta. He moves into the adjacent living room, grabbing a blanket and collapsing onto the couch. She looks like she wants to say more, but only shakes her head and gives him a quick, "Night," before heading upstairs. How could things have gone so downhill in the matter of a half-hour? He reallly hopes he's dreaming, but he knows this is real.

He's always held his masculinity as a top quality. After all, many men in the entertainment business didn't have it. But as he listens to her feet making their way to their bedroom, he throws away any masculine quality he ever had and begins to weep.

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><p>When he wakes the next morning, everything is oddly quiet. Glancing at the digital clock situated above the television, he sees that she should be getting ready for work about right now. Stretching, he gets up and makes his way to the bottom of the staircase, listening for her.<p>

Silence.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a note on the front door, and he peels it off, reading, "Left early for work. Be back later-R". He crumples it and tosses it on the floor. She only left early to avoid him. He suddenly remembers their conversation last night, and his heart falls to his stomach.

They were going to separate. What did that mean? Should he be the one to leave, or should she? A thousand thoughts ran through his mind as he made his way up the stairs and into their bedroom. He should probably leave- it'd be the right thing to do.

Everything came to a sudden halt, though, when he slammed into a large suitcase stationed in the middle of the bedroom. By its weight, he could tell it was full. He ran into their adjoining closet and found that most of her clothes were missing. Coming out, he noticed her computer left opened on their bed. It was opened to an airline website, and scrolling through, he realized she had bought a ticket to Ohio.

Only one ticket.

Well, he guessed he was the one staying, then.

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><p><strong>AN:** This little one-shot was inspired by the song "You Don't Bring Me Flowers Anymore" by Barbra Streisand and Neil Diamond. I hope it made you depressed; that's what I was shooting for, hehe =D **Reviews are always appreciated.**

"Hello Again" will be updated shortly. I'm sorry- writer's block kicked in. I promise that you'll be getting an extra-long chapter, though. "A Realistic Finchel Story" Chapter 4 is slowly being written- again, writer's block.


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